The Lisbon Crossing (17 page)

“‘You’d say that now, wouldn’t you? You’d say anything.’ He lifted the gun slightly and I felt the moment was at hand. I could hardly breathe, but I had to keep him talking.

“‘If you let me live…Just for tonight…I’ll give you something to remember. Do you understand what I’m saying? I can do things that you’ll never forget…’ He looked at me sideways and I thought there was a chance. ‘Why not?’ I pressed. ‘You can get rid of me afterward, if you still want to. Why not see what I can do?’

“A smile slowly crept onto his face, then he reached down with his free hand and started to unbutton his trousers. ‘Get on your knees,’ he said. ‘And give me a demonstration.’ I looked down at him—he was all excited—and then at his grinning face. It was all I could do to keep from vomiting.

“‘On second thought,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you’d better go ahead and shoot me. I’d prefer it. Please, go ahead and pull the trigger. I really would rather die.’

“He was about to do just that when a car’s headlamps appeared from around a bend in the road. Kleinmann grabbed me and pulled me down behind his car. The oncoming vehicle was moving quickly, but instead of passing, it came to an abrupt stop about thirty feet ahead of us. The driver cut the motor and turned off the headlights.

“Kleinmann was panicking, unsure what to do. He had to see who this was, but he couldn’t leave me alone. After a moment, he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me over toward the mysterious car, keeping the Luger pushed against the small of my back. As we approached I could see that this was the American detective’s red car. He must have been following me since I left his hotel.

“In the fog, I don’t think he saw us approaching until it was too late. He had just opened the door, causing the car’s interior light to come on, when he looked up to see Kleinmann pointing the Luger at his chest. I think he wanted to say something, but his words were cut off by the shot. I saw the gun’s flash, then Grimes fell back into the car. He was still alive, clinging to the steering wheel, desperately trying to remain upright, a look of utter shock on his face. He must have known that he was about to die.

“I don’t know what he’d expected to find. Perhaps he thought he was about to interrupt a lovers’ tryst. He looked back at Kleinmann, his eyes pleading for mercy, but, of course, there was none. The Luger fired a second time and Grimes fell back onto the seat. His body twitched a couple of times, then it went completely still.

“It was my Hamburg training that saved me. Without thinking, I made a small, tight ball with my fist and pivoted on my left foot. As I swung my hips around, I drove my knuckles into the sciatic nerve, just above Kleinmann’s left buttock. He gasped for air, and as his legs buckled, I pulled free. I didn’t know if he’d been able to hold on to his gun, so I ran back to his car and retrieved my pistol.

“I had no qualms about killing him. In fact, I was eager to do it. I found him unarmed and helpless, on the ground, scrabbling around in the dark, trying to find his pistol.

“‘How ironic,’ I said. ‘That you’re the one who’s ended up on his
knees.’ Then I placed the pistol a few inches from his head and fired.”

Eva lifted her eyes to meet mine. Her expression was thoughtful, but her voice was surprisingly buoyant. “Have you ever killed anyone, Jack?”

“No,” I answered truthfully. “I never have.”

She nodded. “I was surprised at how calm I felt. He was a horrible man, of course, but he was a human being. You’d think that killing a human being would make you feel some sort of distress, wouldn’t you?” She pursed her lips and slowly shook her head.

“But I felt quite satisfied.”

“Why in God’s name
would you want to go to London?”

Harry Thompson was sounding grumpier than usual, an effect, no doubt, of the dangerously low level of alcohol in his system. He shot a vexed look across the counter, where the bartender was busy filling a waitress’s tray.

“It’s not for me,” I said.

Harry peered over my shoulder, highlighting his unequivocal disinterest in my problems. The casino was flush at this hour, jammed with after-dinner chumps whose idea of a good evening was giving their money away. It was the only action in Estoril, and the first place I’d looked for Harry.

“Who’s it for, then?” he finally said, curiosity getting the better of him.

“A friend.”

“A female friend, I take it?”

I shrugged. What else?

“Jack the lad, eh?” He turned his attention back to the bartender. “That man is jeopardizing his best tip of the night.” His palm came down hard on the bar.

“Whiskey, senhor! Por favor!”

The barman produced a smile and a shrug, put his finger in the air, pleading for another
minuto
.

“It’s urgent,” I said.

“It’s always urgent, dear boy. Someone special?”

“Not particularly,” I said. “But I told her I’d help and I’d like to keep my word.”

“Very noble,” Harry scoffed.

The bartender finally arrived with a couple of scotches on the rocks. Harry gulped his down before I could remove the swizzle stick from mine. He took a moment, eyes closed, to feel it spread, then rejoined me with a shiver and an almost congenial smile.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Jack, but the last time I saw you, you were informing me that I could fuck off because my problems had nothing whatsoever to do with you. So, tell me, please, why I should give a tuppenny toss about yours.”

“I’d be willing to pay.”

His face went sour. “Perhaps you should see our friend, the rat. That’s more his area of interest.”

I leaned in and lowered my voice, more for effect than anything else. “I could pay with information.”

His interest went up a notch. “Such as?”

“Still want to know what the duke’s up to?”

“Is he up to something?”

“Where’s my ticket to London?”

He scowled. “If you have something to say on the subject, I assure you that a ticket will be forthcoming.”

“We’ll talk when it’s already come forth,” I replied.

“Friends must sometimes rely on trust, Jack.”

“I trust you, Harry. But I’ll trust you a lot more when I have the ticket in my hand.”

He couldn’t help smiling. “All right. If you want to be that way. What’s the young lady’s name?”

“Lisa Foquet.”

“Foquet?” He took out his reporter’s notebook and jotted the name down. I had to spell it out for him.

“She’s traveling on a Belgian passport,” I said, in case it mattered. Harry nodded and put the pad back into his pocket.

“You remember the little bar in Casçais?”

“Sure. Your breakfast spot.”

He grunted. “Shall we say teatime?”

“What the hell is teatime?”

“You really are an uncivilized lot, aren’t you? Teatime is four o’clock—
P.M.
”

“Four it is, then,” I said, slipping off the bar stool. “And listen, Harry…Why not bring your friend Stropford along? He might as well hear it direct.” Harry was a drunk, but he was also a newspaperman, and I didn’t trust a newspaperman to get the story straight. He got the implication.

“Bastard,” he snarled.

“I knew you’d understand, Harry.”

I gave him a friendly pat on the back and headed for the door. I was looking forward to a few hours in a real bed.

“H
err Teller!”

I’d almost slipped past unnoticed, but Ritter spotted me and jumped to his feet. “Come, sit here beside me! We will have a drink!” He beckoned me to the table, where a band of well-tailored fascists were treating themselves to a night of good champagne and bad women. They all ignored me, except for one, sitting across the table, who stole a look. Small and blond with a boyishly round face, he would’ve been the spitting image of Mickey Rooney if it wasn’t for the scar that ran from his right temple, across his cheek, all the way down to his chin. His look didn’t linger, but it was more than just an idle glance. I slipped into the empty seat beside Major Ritter.

“I see you are alone,” he said. “Have you still problems with your mistress?”

“If you mean Lili, she’s not my mistress, in any sense of the word. And, no, we patched things up.” I had no intention of accounting for her whereabouts, particularly as she’d left a note telling me that she was dining with the Windsors and would see me in the morning.

“Please, take some champagne,” the major said, snapping his fingers at a nearby waiter, even though the bottle was right in front of him.

“Is it somebody’s birthday?”

He cast a wry look in my direction. “We celebrate Germany and the Führer, of course. But let us make a toast with which you will feel more comfortable. To your safe journey home!” He raised his glass.

“And to yours,” I said.

The major smiled sardonically and sized me up as he sipped the bubbly. “I’ve not yet decided how to analyze you, Herr Teller.”

“I’m a complicated guy.”

He laughed. “Not so much, I think. In fact, you seem to be quite a shallow individual, with no personal conviction whatsoever. You possess a misplaced sense of your own value and your character is defined by frivolity and impertinence.”

“Personal conviction can get you into a lot of trouble.”

“You see. A perfect example. You seem unable to take anything seriously.”

“Maybe it’s just you I can’t take seriously.”

He flinched, but decided to let it ride. He was having too much fun to go into storm-trooper mode.

“You’re not a coward, I give you that,” he said. “And you seem to be capable of great loyalty—not to a cause, or an idea, perhaps, but to a person. I suspect that no amount of money or persuasion would deflect you from a duty you feel for a friend. Am I correct?”

“I’ve probably never been sufficiently tested,” I said, lighting a smoke. “But you’re welcome to try me. With the money, that is, not the persuasion. I have a feeling that you’d be too good at that.”

“But I have already tried you, Herr Teller. Did I not offer to pay you five thousand dollars if you supplied Eva Lange to me?”

“And did I not accept?”

Ritter shook his head. “You said that you did, but you were not sincere. You hoped only to distract my efforts while you found the girl and stole her off to America, for your—what shall we call her if not your mistress? Would you say benefactress? Or perhaps you consider Lili Sterne a friend? In any case, you would not betray her for five thousand dollars. Am I correct?”

“I guess we’ll never know,” I said.

“Yes, of course. We could not know because Eva Lange is dead. Is this your position?”

“Well?”

He frowned. “But…Are you certain of this?”

“Of what?”

“That Eva Lange is dead.”

“Sure I’m sure,” I said, starting to feel a bit queasy. “I saw her…Lili identified her.”

“Yes, I heard about it.” Ritter displayed a genuine smile now. “I understand that she gave quite a convincing performance. Or should I say conniving?”

Now my gut was starting to contract. “I’m not sure I follow you, Major…Captain Catela—”

“Is a vain imbecile. He would jump from a cliff if Lili Sterne told him to do so.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know that,” I said, forcing an uneasy smile. Ritter leaned in to me, a look of drunken glee on his face.

“Perhaps, Herr Teller, you would be well advised to take me more seriously after all.”

I inhaled a lungful of smoke and blew it out slowly. “Then you’re still looking for her?”

Ritter smiled cagily. “But, Herr Teller. Why ever would you think that I would be looking for a dead woman?”

It was too dark
to see my watch. I flipped the switch on the bedside lamp: 3:28. No point lying there, I thought. I slipped into the light cotton bathrobe that the hotel provided, went into the living room, and poured myself a scotch and water. I didn’t really want it, but it gave me something to do. I lit a smoke that I didn’t want, either.

Ritter’s performance had been disquieting, to say the least. There was no doubt that he knew Eva was alive, in spite of his coyness. Somebody had sold us out. But who? There were a dozen candidates, with Popov at the top of the list, closely followed by Senhor Baptista. The only one I could eliminate completely was myself, and Lili was pretty much out of the question, too. That left Brewster; the fat detective and his two sidekicks; Baptista’s doltish assistant; Alberto, and his cousins, Fabio and Rosalina.

It could’ve been any of them, but that would have to wait. The question of the moment was how to get Eva out of the Gestapo’s reach. Ritter would have Catela’s entire force out looking for her. If somebody was talking, then it was just a question of time before—

I put the scotch aside. How could I be so stupid?

“I
need a car.”

“A car?”

“That’s right. A motor vehicle.”

“You would like one?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“That’s right, Javier. Now.”

“But, senhor…” The usually helpful desk clerk checked the clock on the wall behind him. “It is four o’clock in the morning. Where can I—?”

I slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

T
he road was pitch-black and empty. No one could’ve been following without me knowing, but just to be sure, I doused the headlights and pulled Javier’s old Opel onto the verge as I approached the turnoff. I sat there for a couple of minutes, long enough for a smoke, then eased my foot onto the accelerator and made the turn before hitting the headlights again.

There were only a couple of dirt tracks intersecting the winding gravel road that traversed the face of the mountain, so I was pretty sure I hadn’t missed the entrance to the farm, but it seemed a lot farther than I remembered.

I found the turn and slowed to a crawl, recalling that the track ran along a very narrow ridge, falling off steeply to the left as it curved around to the right. I was on full alert, keenly aware of the engine’s low rumble and the crack of dry twigs as they were caught under the slow turn of the wheel. The car’s headlights tore through the night with a sudden intrusion of harsh white light, shadows flitting through the brush, escaping into the inky depths beyond. I knew what was coming. Death doesn’t hide in the dark. It permeates the air and
announces itself with a sickly feeling in the pit of your stomach.

The body lay across the path, facedown, arms folded underneath the naked torso. If I had any doubts about who the dead man was, they were eliminated when I saw the black dress shoes. I pulled the car up close, bathing Fabio in light, then killed the engine. The sudden silence was a bit unnerving, causing me to peer out into the void as I stepped into the night air and approached the corpse.

His face was immersed in a deep pool of dark red blood. As I approached I could see why. His throat had been cut so deeply that his head was nearly severed from his body. I paused, tamped down my emotions, then crouched beside the body to get a closer look. He hadn’t been lying there long. Steam rose off the gaping wound and the blood was just starting to congeal around his ears. I noticed that the barrel of his shotgun was poking out from under his considerable frame. Stepping around to the other side, I took hold of it and pulled gently. It didn’t move. I tried with both hands, giving it a good yank, but still no movement.

Christ, I thought, I’m gonna have to roll him over.

I took a deep breath, shoved my hands under Fabio’s chest, and lifted. I almost had him over when I looked down and discovered that I was the object of his fixed gaze. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but I was able to hold on long enough to kick the shotgun out from under him.

It was a relic of the nineteenth century—two rusty twelve-gauge barrels fired with external hammers, and a handle that was held together with electrical tape. It would probably blow up in my face if I tried to use it, but it was better than nothing. I turned toward the house and steeled myself for what I might find.

The door was open. As I stepped into the murky stillness, a dim, flickering light drew me through the front room, where I’d spent the previous night, toward the back of the house. The light grew in intensity as I approached, a soft orange glow emanating from inside the bedroom, dancing across the undulating gray plaster of the back wall. I went slowly, listening for any sound, any movement. There was none.

As I rounded the corner, her blood-splattered hand came into view. She was reaching out, pleading—maybe begging for mercy from her killer, or perhaps attempting to call her husband, who already lay naked and dead on the road. Or maybe it was Rosalina’s last desperate plea to God that He not let her die there, in wretched anguish, on the cold, hard tiles.

The flame in the oil lamp hovered over the scene, flitting and jumping behind its glass casing, casting a nervous illumination onto the horror that I faced. An innocent young woman had been sliced open—not with cool precision, but with a savage brutality that made every fiber in my body contract in revulsion until I could scarcely draw a breath. I fell back against the door. The sheets were smeared with deep crimson, her cotton nightgown saturated with blood emanating from her stomach, where the blade had penetrated, and there were bloody handprints across the white walls. She’d been attacked in the bed, then tried to make it out of the room, using the wall for support. She hadn’t made it, collapsing before she reached the door. That’s where she’d realized that she was going to die, and all she could do was beg for help. From her husband, her executioner, or from God, it didn’t matter. None came.

All the constricting pain I felt suddenly came together to form a ball of agony in the pit of my stomach. I doubled over, and in my body’s attempt to expel the ache, I retched everything I had, coughing and sputtering until I was empty and gagging on my own bile.

I straightened up and took a shaky breath. It was impossible to avoid looking at the poor girl’s face again. I hadn’t exchanged more than a polite smile with this gentle soul, but seeing her there in that state was enough to make me want to cry like a baby. My physical reaction to the grisly scene was certainly understandable, but it wasn’t just the blood that had made me sick. It was the fact that this was a case of mistaken identity. It was the thought that this could have been Eva.